In a battle scene, we find a fierce conqueror holding his horse while his troops charge ahead. As he stares fixedly at the cloud of dust rising from the point of collision, we wonder if his leading-from-behind war strategy has a nuance that doesn’t meet the eye. Just then, with a grimace and a cry, he bolts ahead, holding a spear in jabbing position and disappears in the curtain of dust. Soon, he emerges on the other side with a human head stuck at the end of his weapon — as if he had forked up what he wanted from a buffet.

This determined unforgiving warrior happens to be Alauddin Khilji, ruler of the Delhi Sultanate. While the previous depiction of Khilji — Om Puri in Shyam Benegal’s Bharat Ek Khoj, had a more aristocratic flair, Ranveer Singh’s fluid reimagining of the totalitarian warrior delves into his manic mind to extract his animalistic instinct and snatch all that impresses him. A man of multiple layers, Singh’s Khilji is a bag of contradictions — temperamental yet decisive — from cackling about with his uncle Jalaluddin to getting him stabbed in the back. While the brutality seems like a fleeting act of rage, it is later confirmed as a premeditated political move.

Why would we attribute as much editorial real estate on the anti-hero, when this one’s about a fictional Rajput queen? Agreed, this is a story of Rajput pride and a Raja willing to slash and strike to defend it. But while the Rajasthani royalty has been portrayed sensitively, it is the manipulative maniac who aspired to be the next Alexander that captures our imagination. When he gnashes his teeth to furnish grimace or conveys glib gratitude with a superficial smile, we’re assured — Singh’s Khilji may have failed to capture the eponymous queen in the film but he will be credited for crafting one of the most Machiavellian characters in Indian cinema.

A fictional account of poet Malik Mohammad Jayasi’s work, Padmaavat is a visual treat. While ostentatious sets and elaborate costumes are synonymous with Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s work, the maker takes it up a notch by employing his aesthetic in the battlefield. Unlike his previous period drama Bajirao Mastani, where the fight scenes attempted to draw a Baahubali-stic appeal, this one invests heavily in establishing characters, giving an insight into what fuels their actions. And doing this in the comprehensive Bhansali way means the runtime exceeds by about 30 minutes beyond reasonable tolerance or feels that way, at least.

Deepika Padukone, in the titular role, is a tad underwhelming. While she manages to convey a range of emotions by merely welling up, her character could’ve been a bit more multifarious. Shahid Kapoor, as Raja Ratan Singh is just like a portrait — and in several shots, we see him assuming a power stance and a smug expression to convey his imperial manner. But when he explodes in fury, he sounds like an Army General who has downed a few extra shots. But it is Singh who shadows the rest here. His ability to alternately convey intimidation and diffuse tension furnishes his Khilji as a delightful dread one can’t ignore.

While most of the songs seem tedious, Ghoomar is well choreographed and gives a taste of the region the film is set in. That this film has a few severed heads and dramatic transformations, calls upon crediting makeup and prosthetic artist Preetisheel Singh. Action director Sham Kaushal ensures every strike and clank seems like a reflex reaction rather than a calculated attack, rendering an unpredictable contest even when the winner is obvious.

Following the noise around this film, one can’t help but scrutinise it for objectionable depiction. But even if Bhansali suspends reality in his immersive world, it’s a strike from reality we’d like to hold on to.